existed in our little universe, and that was fine with me. I’ve never been one of those girls who aspired to higher social status. Being popular wasn’t on my bucket list. But the moment word got out that Tristan and I were a couple, it was like someone dressed me up in a silly costume and shone a giant spotlight on my face. Suddenly people knew my name. They knew where I lived. They knew my class schedule.
Girls like Daphne Gray suddenly took notice. And not in a good way. They noticed me the way a supermodel notices a pimple that’s just appeared on her face hours before a photo shoot.
Now I constantly feel like I’m locked in a display case. Like one of those caveman exhibits at the museum that curious groups of kids walk by, laughing at the skimpy rabbit-fur clothing that hides practically nothing.
I feel like I’m permanently trapped in the naked-at-school dream.
As Mr. Weylan writes our homework assignment on the board—read chapters 3 and 4 in our textbooks—I carefully stow the quiz away in my binder under the divider tab marked “History” and the sub-divider tab marked “Tests and Quizzes.”
I’ll have to figure out how to fix this later. Maybe I can convince Mr. Weylan to give me some extra-credit work. If I can speak loudly enough for his hearing aid to pick up.
12:40 p.m.
By lunch, I’m absolutely starving, but I’m way too nervous about the upcoming election speeches to keep anything down. I completely forgot to eat my peanut butter toast this morning and I find it crumpled at the bottom of my schoolbag, the peanut butter now creating an adhesive between my chemistry textbook and my extra-credit paper for English.
Perfect.
At least I had the foresight to store the note cards for my election speech in the interior Velcro-sealed pocket. The speeches are after lunch during homeroom, and I haven’t even so much as glanced at the notes all day. Remind me again why I agreed to be Rhiannon Marshall’s running mate. Because she asked? No, there had to be a better reason than that. I’d like to think that I was even halfway rational when I decided to say yes. Maybe something about college applications? It’s all a blur now.
I pull the cards Rhiannon wrote for me out of my bag and slip them into the back pocket of my skinny jeans. I’ll review them a few times during lunch and everything will be fine.
I’m a quick study.
It’s the standing-up-in-front-of-fifteen-hundred-people part that’s making my internal organs do cartwheels.
Ever since school started last month, I’ve been eating my lunches in the band room while Tristan and the guys rehearse. I try to practice my speech in there, but I’m way too distracted by Tristan’s sexy voice as he croons the lyrics to their most popular song, “Mind of the Girl,” and I eventually leave to find somewhere quiet.
The library is my best bet. When I enter, Owen is leading the book club in a passionate debate about the major differences between the movie and book versions of The Book Thief. I steal up the stairs to the second floor and lock myself into one of the tiny soundproof booths where language arts students record the oral portions of their exams.
Even in the dead silence of this little cell, I still can’t seem to concentrate. I stare numbly at my index cards, but the more I try to focus on Rhiannon’s neat handwriting, the more the letters blur and swim in my vision. I’m able to make out words like “vision” and “commitment” and “campaign,” but I can’t, for the life of me, make them fit together into any coherent thoughts.
What am I going to do? I can’t even read the stupid speech! How am I ever supposed to give the stupid speech?
Eventually, I give up and proceed back downstairs. I sit atop one of the tables and wait for Owen. When book club wraps up, he comes over and slides onto the table across from me, swinging his legs like a little kid sitting on a too-high stool.
“You should join book club,” he says, holding up his tattered, dog-eared copy of The Book Thief. “And by the way, I totally stole this book.”
I stifle a laugh. “No, you didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you only pretend to be a rebel. Deep down inside, you’re just like me.” I bat my eyes. “Sugar and spice and all things nice.”
Owen pulls a half-eaten sandwich from his bag, unwraps